


Such People Perish

by Brosedshield



Series: Hell Shall Not Wash Us Away [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Curtain Fic, Gen, Heart Attacks, Heartbreak, Heaven, Not Really Character Death, Platonic Soulmates, Regret, Soulmates, Timestamp, though if you want to see Wincest I'm fine with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brosedshield/pseuds/Brosedshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dies almost instantly—heart attack—on his (their) back porch. And then he’s somewhere else, alone. Until Sam comes after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such People Perish

**Author's Note:**

> _“It’s quite simply the gladiator mentality; because he has no hope of living, he does whatever he can do in order to sate his lusts and slake his desires, being like a victim already devoted to the sacrifice. Such people perish out of despair.”_  
>  —St. Augustine of Hippo

Dean once told Sam that he would die of a broken heart.  
  
Dean was very drunk at the time, after their second or third Apocalypse, with a banged-up head and not a lot of hope left.  
  
“’M gonna die of a broken heart, Sammy.” Dean told him, pawing feebly at the hand on his jacket. “Y’gonna leave me an’ I’m just gonna die.”  
  
Later, when the bad guys—and most of Rochester, Minnesota, totally not their fault—were a smoking ruin and Dean was down to his usual fifth of whisky per day, Dean denied the comment vociferously, refused to remember a single word he’d said and ignored Sam so thoroughly on the topic that he let it drop in less than a month.  
  
Dean did his best to forget he’d ever said such a sissy, girly thing, but he never forgot how Sam had flinched when he said it.  
  
 _Gonna die of a broken heart, Sammy. When you leave, I’m gonna die._  
  
It’s funny, then, in its horrible, not-really-funny-at-all way, that Dean goes first. Goddamned heart attack on his—their—goddamned porch, just when he thought that, maybe, life could be okay (the sentiment never lasted long, but what good was death if you couldn’t bitch about it?).  
  
The pain isn’t much, not compared to broken ribs, busted hands, his first heart attack—he can still remember the name of the kid who died for him, Marshall Hall, 27 years old, fuck, why have so many died while he’s still breathing?—or _Hell_ , but it hurts like a fucking bitch all the same.  
  
But what pushes him over the panicky edge when he knows this is it, this is death, with a tiny, permanent ‘d’, is that Sam isn’t with him. He’s in the house, washing dishes and putting away dinner while Dean drinks his nightcap on the porch, expecting Dean to walk back in in a few and turn on a late-night cop show. But Dean isn’t, this time. Little brother never left him and he’s still got a goddamned _wall_ in his head and Dean can’t stay because he’s going. This is what it feels like when a Reaper’s got you by the soul (he _knows_ this, not his first time dying), and this time it doesn’t feel like he’s coming back.  
  
Fuck it. If he had ever seriously thought he’d get ganked by his own arteries he’d have laid off the double patties, maybe tried to go sober the thousandth or so time Sam asked it. But in a world of angels, demons, ghosts, Leviathans, serial killers, gods, and drunk drivers, who the fuck put their money on cholesterol?  
  
Then something cracks and the pain crawling through his chest is gone. The porch is gone. Dean is gone.  
  
He’s somewhere else, with sunlight, tall green grass, and a breeze that tugs at the collar of his battered leather jacket. Dad’s jacket, Dean knows even without looking down, and when he puts a hand to his throat he touches the funny little pendant that he hasn’t seen in years, hasn’t worn in decades. All the pain is gone, from the ache in his much-broken bones to the ache in his throat from one too many days bent over the toilet emptying moonshine from his stomach, and this place can only be Heaven.  
  
But it’s wrong, too, because there’s no Sam.  
  
The second he thinks that, the place changes. The sky darkens, the breeze picks up, and he thinks he can hear howling in the distance, old memories (hunts, hounds, Hell) sliding up under his skin like a blade. He has to go back. He has to find Sam. Because Heaven alone will be no better than Hell.  
  
And then something accelerates. It’s like feeling himself pressed into the Impala’s seat as he hits the gas, pressure, _speed_ , expectation and suddenly something wrenches sideways.  
  
The first thing Dean sees is Sam.  
  
Fierce joy, the profound feeling that the world is _right_ , floods through him. Sam’s looking younger, no dark circles under his eyes, nothing but laugh lines around his mouth. It’s almost perfect (and Dean never believed in perfect before) except that Sam is looking at him like he expects Dean to be angry. And then Dean realizes that he can’t have been dead more than five minutes, and if Sam is here, that means he must be dead too. Which, even for their lifestyle, is a pretty fast turnaround. _Dammit, Sam._  
  
“You didn’t off yourself, did you?”  
  
Sam shakes his head. “Chimera.”  
  
The words are no sooner out of his mouth than Dean has Sam dragged up into a hug, the eternal, familiar feel of his brother in his arms, head tucked over Dean's shoulder. They're dead, and together, and never going to leave each other again, and Heaven is a damn fine place to be.  
  
He didn’t kill himself. He didn’t self-destruct. Dean abandoned him, and Sam didn’t break down or do something world-destroying, and Dean doesn’t think that he’s ever been prouder of his little brother in his life, and Sam damn well went to Hell to save the world once.  
  
So he says it, because he never did enough while he was alive. “I’m so damn proud of you.”  
  
Sam snorts. “Getting my ass handed to me by an overgrown Gila monster?”  
  
Dean grins. “Fuck, don’t brag. I died from a broken heart.”  
  
Sam freezes in his arms, and over his shoulder, Dean sees the wall (twelve-foot high walls of concrete masonry do not just appear, but he never noticed it before, too distracted by Sam). And for the first time in his—well, _life_ —he can face this. “Not your fault, Sammy.”  
  
Laughing, Sam hugs him hard enough to break his ribs. “Yeah, well, I warned you about those hamburgers.”  
  
And Dean holds onto him just as hard. “Yeah, you did, Sam. Yeah you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://brosedshield.livejournal.com/55107.html) at LJ, beta by Lavinia and Whereupon :)


End file.
